struck. She was gathering herself together as she
looked, growing conscious of her hurt and of her resentment.
Kendal was silent, cursing himself inwardly for not having
destroyed the thing the day after he had let himself do it.

"Yes," she said, placing it on an easel at an oblique
angle with the north window of the room, "it is better so."

She stepped back a few paces to look at it, and stood
immovable, searching every detail. "It does you credit,"
she said slowly; "immense credit. Oh, it is very clever!"

"Forgive me," Kendal said, taking a step toward her. "I
am afraid it doesn't But I never intended you to see it."

"Is it an order?" she asked calmly. "Ah, but that would
not have been fair--not to show it to me first!"

Kendal crimsoned. "I beg," he said earnestly, "that you
will not think such a thing possible. I intended to
destroy it--I don't know why I have not destroyed it!"

"But why? It is so good, so charming, so--so _true!_ You
did it for your own amusement, then! But that was very
selfish."

For answer Kendal caught up a tube of Indian red, squeezed
it on the crusted palette, loaded a brush with it, and
dashed it across the sketch. It was a feeble piece of
bravado, and he felt it, but he must convince her in some
way that the thing was worthless to him.

"Ah," she said, "that is a pity!" and she walked to
the door. She must get away, quite away, and quickly, to
realize this, thing, and find out exactly what it meant
to her. And yet, three steps down the stairs she turned
and came back again. John Kendal stood where, she had
left him, staring at the sketch on the easel.

"I have come back to thank you," Elfrida said quickly,
"for showing me what a fool I made of myself," and she
was gone.

An hour later Kendal had not ceased to belabor himself;
but the contemplation of the sketch--he had not looked
at it for two months--brought him to the conclusion that
perhaps, after all, it might have some salutary effect.
He found himself so curiously sore about it though, so
thoroughly inclined, to brand himself a traitor and a
person without obligation, that he went back to Norway
the following week--a course which left a number of worthy
people in the neighborhood of Bigton, Devonshire, very
indignant indeed.

CHAPTER XXII.

"Daddy," Janet said to her father a few days after their
return to town; "I've been thinking that we might--that
you might--be of use in helping Frida to place some